


The Second Time Around

by Angelike



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Illustrated, M/M, MAFAs Nominee, Multiparter, Myrddin, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Reincarnation, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/eosrose/pic/00064ds2"></a>
  <img/>
  <b>This story is potentially abandoned. Read at your own risk. (06/08/2013)</b>
</p><p>Future mercilessly robbed of him by the flames of one king's retribution, Merlin breathes his last breath—and the infant Myrddin breathes his first. Destiny can never be thwarted. It can only be delayed for a while.</p><p>
  <b>Teaser:</b>
  <br/>
  <i>Something deep inside him is stirring, strange images whispering across his vision. When he closes his stinging eyes, he can almost glimpse flashes of armour and glittering goblets and hair like spun gold. For a moment, the anxious buzzing of the waiting townsfolk lining the streets becomes a chaotic symphony of clashing swords and deep, resonating laughter that shakes him down to his core. He's seen things before, heard things before, but not like this. Never like this.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> After reading several stories that dealt with what might happen should Uther ever discover Merlin's magic, I found myself unable to resist writing something similar. What if Uther demanded Merlin's execution? What if Arthur was unable to save him? How would the path Arthur and Merlin supposedly share be changed? Could destiny truly be unmade?
> 
> Reincarnation seemed to be a promising result of Merlin's untimely death, offering the opportunity to deal with grief and hope in equal measure. If Merlin were to be reincarnated in Arthur's lifetime, destiny would be preserved, but also changed. In capturing significant moments in the relationship of Arthur and Merlin's latest incarnation, young Myrddin, I have sought to reshape the possibilities and tackle new questions.
> 
> Considering the age difference, would Arthur feel comfortable loving Myrddin, even provided the knowledge of the boy's former identity? How might Myrddin cope with being constantly compared to someone he'll never be again? What would outsiders see when looking upon them?
> 
> There is only one way to find out…
> 
> **Acknowledgements:**  
> My sincere gratitude must go out to [](http://apinae.livejournal.com/profile)[**apinae**](http://apinae.livejournal.com/) for the creation of the lovely poster for this story!
> 
> **Awards:**  
> This story was nominated for Best Death Fic and Best Work-in-Progress in the [Spring 2009 Merlin/Arthur Fic Awards](http://community.livejournal.com/camelot_awards/3077.html)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poster by [](http://apinae.livejournal.com/profile)[**apinae**](http://apinae.livejournal.com/).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/eosrose/pic/00065egf)The first time Myrddin gazes upon his destiny, he is nothing more than an overeager five-year-old tucked tenderly against the bosom of his beloved aunt, greedily seeking the comfort of her warmth.

The icy chill of winter bites mercilessly at them through the questionable warmth of a single threadbare cloak, the only one they can afford. They’re both shivering, teeth chattering uncontrollably, and the people crowded around them aren’t much better. Foolishness is, perhaps, contagious. Not one of them needs to be exposing themselves to this awful weather.

With the arrogance of youth, he knows beyond all doubt that with only a word he could persuade his aunt to carry him back into their comfortable little hovel. Within minutes they could be warming themselves by a modest fire and entertaining each other with little stories and ditties as they have every other day these past few months.  However.

It’s strange—and it makes no sense at all—but he knows what is to come will be worth holding out for.  Concerns for the ache in his limbs and numbness of his ears and the terrible cold he’ll almost surely suffer later are irrelevant, petty indulgences. He’s better than that—must be better than that.

Something deep inside him is stirring, strange images whispering across his vision. When he closes his stinging eyes, he can almost glimpse flashes of armour and glittering goblets and hair like spun gold. For a moment, the anxious buzzing of the waiting townsfolk lining the streets becomes a chaotic symphony of clashing swords and deep, resonating laughter that shakes him down to his core. He’s seen things before, heard things before, but not like this. Never like this.

Though he doesn’t know why, he has no choice but to stay.

It seems like hours before they come, but come they do, just as the messenger promised. “Look, poppet,” his aunt says, her own tremulous excitement bubbling as the cheers start erupting around them, piercing through the shrieking wind. “They’re here. His Majesty has arrived at last!” And Myrddin opens his eyes, straining to see through the crowd, momentarily forgetting his discomfort (and the worrisome fact that he had lost all feeling in his feet some time ago) when at last everything becomes clear.

“All hail, King Arthur!” the people chant in honour of their new king. “Long live the King!”

All Myrddin can do is stare.

His first thought when he sees him is: he looks exactly the same. This makes absolutely no sense, of course, because this is Arthur’s first tour of his lands as king and Misty Valley has never had much need for a hero-prince. Myrddin has never seen him before in his life.

Still, the thought sticks.

He studies the king with blue eyes, tinged yellow—and the man is beautiful. From atop his noble white steed, King Arthur looks every bit as courtly and proud one might expect: armoured in shimmering gold and crowned in jewels, the light dancing over the well-polished planes of metal in ethereal delight. The sun—it loves him, worships him. With gracious smiles the king accepts his people’s adoration and pledges of devotion. With a wave of his hand he promises a brighter future. He looks something more than human. Godly, divine.

But his eyes are dark.

“Auntie?” Myrddin questions, tugging insistently on her sleeve—though his eyes never once stray from the king. “What is wrong with him?”

“Wrong with him?” His aunt heaves him higher, balancing him carefully against her hip. “Whatever do you mean?”

Myrddin purses his lips, wondering how anyone could fail to see it—that aching emptiness, the loneliness. But, then, he’s always been a little more observant than is entirely natural. There’s a reason the other villagers warn their children away from him. “He’s unhappy,” he replies. “I’ve never seen anyone so sad.” His chest throbs in sympathy, as if the pain were his own. Maybe it is. He knows something of what it means to be alone.

“It is difficult for any son to lose a father.”

He nods pensively, but is not quite satisfied. That’s part of it, yes, but there’s more to the story. The languid black mottling those expressive orbs speak of old wounds, unhealed and unrelenting. Their new young king has lost someone, yes—but years ago. Now the wound festers—with yearning, with regret.

When the king passes them by, that tragic gaze meets Myrddin’s directly. Suddenly the darkness is gone and his eyes are so blue—blue like nothing of this earth, but then the man’s attention slips onward, ever onward, and the darkness is back—black, black, so black.

Myrddin rests his head on his aunt’s shoulder and knows he’ll see that shocking blue again someday.

He isn’t cold anymore.


	2. First Meeting

It is in the spring of his seventh year that Myrddin finds himself stepping foot in Camelot for the first time.

Apparently his aunt had been apprenticed to a weaver in the city for a few years in her youth—before familial obligations had called her home to Misty Valley. Although she has long since accepted that her fate lies elsewhere, some girlhood ties are not easily severed. Every year for as far back as Myrddin can remember one or another of his aunt’s old friends has extended a summertime invitation for them to pay a visit to the city. Every year his aunt has smiled cheerlessly, bowed to necessity, and made her regretful excuses. But not this year.

This year there is nothing to hold her back: the past winter had been mild; their modest garden had been planted in record time; their little hovel is already in wonderful order; and the even-tempered widower who had begun a tentative courtship of Myrddin's blushing aunt some months past had kindly offered to oversee her affairs should she choose to go. She sends a message of affirmation on ahead of them and her spirits are so high in the aftermath that she refrains from scolding Myrddin when he, beside himself with glee, trips and sends some of their crockery flying—though she _does_ flinch when the crockery freezes in mid-air for one miraculous moment before shattering. But, really, even _he_ had been a little startled by that one, so she can hardly be faulted for it.

In the nights leading up to their departure he dreams more vividly than he has in a very long time. He dreams of cobblestone roads and bustling markets. He dreams of flags waving from high torrents and dragons rumbling deep beneath the earth. He dreams of cheering crowds and flowing red cloaks. He dreams of flames reflected in desperate blue eyes.

He wakes with a name caught on the tip of his tongue.

Days are spent pestering his aunt to recite the stories about King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and all the other knights (and does she suppose he’ll be able to see the king again? maybe even meet him?) until she throws up her hands in exasperation and demands he go work off some of his excess energy with the other village boys. He doesn’t tell her that he’s been blacklisted from their games since last Tuesday, after he’d overheard Daly, the miller’s son, speaking badly of King Arthur and promptly sent the stupid git tumbling into a muddy ravine. It doesn’t matter. They aren’t really his friends anyway.

On the twelfth day after the decision was first made to go, they depart at dawn. They reach the road to Camelot around midday, sleep under the smiling shine of the stars, and arrive at their destination by late afternoon the next day. It’s just as well that they manage to make good time, because by the time they stop for their midday meal on the second day Myrddin’s legs are on the brink of giving out, his back is screaming under the weight of his pack, and his arms are itching wretchedly courtesy of the bugs that had seen fit to eat him during the previous night. The last stretch of road is nothing short of absolute torment. However, the instant he glimpses Camelot through the trees for the first time none of that seems to matter. His breath catches in his throat and he’s probably gawping like the country bumpkin he is, but how could he not?

_Home,_ Myrddin sighs, the furtive thought drifting hazily through his awe. _I’m home._

As he passes through the gates and casts his eager eyes around, drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of this foreign-familiar place, the sense that he has done this before, been here before, intensifies to an almost painful degree. The bustling streets dim before his eyes. For one haunting moment he’s looking at a similar scene, only the crowd is different (sparser, more sombre, too) and the buildings look somehow saddened, less proud than before. But then his aunt is tickling his sides with an impish grin and everything is back to normal. Shaken, he offers a timid smile back, scowling when she ruffles his hair in amusement.

“So, does your first impression of Camelot live up to expectations?”

“Well,” he sniffs with mock hauteur, “I suppose it will do.”

It’s everything he’s hoped for and more.

* * *

Their brief vacation is half over before Myrddin manages to slip away to explore on his own. For some reason his aunt has been convinced that he would only land himself neck-deep in trouble should he venture out on his own. At his age he’s really much too old to be tied to her apron strings—and he says so, loudly and at great length. His arguments fall on deaf ears. Frustration builds in him, amplified by the fact that all his aunt’s insane friends seem to think he is “the most adorable little rascal” they’ve ever laid eyes on, which apparently demands the pinching of cheeks, wet old-lady kisses, and more baby-talk than he can stand. The women of Camelot are clearly quite insane. No wonder King Arthur hasn’t married yet!

And that’s another thing: he’s still not managed to catch a glimpse of the king.

_That_, he resolves, _is simply unacceptable_. Oh, sure, he hears all manner of gossip about him (the women speak of little else) but Myrddin tires of speculation and rumour. He wants something more substantial to take home with him. He wants to see if the man measures up to the legend, to know whether or not the noble lord who rode through Misty Valley on that cold day so long ago was just an idealized figment of his overactive imagination. There is no way he’s going to risk leaving Camelot having never set his sight on his lord and master. If he must risk his aunt’s ire in order to see his mission through, then so be it.

Making his break for freedom is actually a lot easier than expected. The woman they’re staying with and her husband run a small bakery and although they do not often deliver their goods, there is an old grandmother down the street for whom they like to make an extra effort. The bakery happens to be bustling one fortuitous afternoon, so when he offers to take on that errand himself, no one gainsays him, despite the fact that his aunt looks like the would very much _like_ to. She eyes him with grave suspicion as he slips past her with a guileless smile, package tucked under his arm.

“Don’t get sidetracked,” she warns with narrowed eyes.

Myrddin nods, but makes no promises. Direct lies have always left a sour taste in his mouth, like milk too long forgotten. He avoids them when he can.

The chore is completed with relative ease and swiftness. He even good-naturedly permits the old woman to coo over him for a few moments in light of the fact that she is the unwitting catalyst enabling his escape. Before too long, however, he’s making his excuses and weaving his way through the streets with as much haste as he can manage without drawing undue attention. His deception will be discovered soon enough and he means to make the most of what time he has.

The castle rises up before him in no time at all. He pauses for a few awed minutes, running reverent fingers along stone and mortar as he catches his breath. Nervousness prickles under his skin, because obviously he has no valid business beyond this wall. If someone questions him—well. Not only does he _hate_ lying, but he’s also complete _rubbish_ at it.

“Don’t notice me,” he whispers softly, pulling away from the wall to approach the entrance with as much purpose and confidence as he can muster. _Don’t notice me,_ is his silent litany as he passes the guards, _I’m just a poor, overworked servant boy. No need to pay me any heed._ His breath catches in his throat when the gaze of one of the guards settles on him. _Please, don’t notice me!_ The man’s eyes continue on, glazed with boredom.

Then he’s in the courtyard.

Luck must be with him. Marvelling just a little at his good fortune (even as a voice in the back of his head rails against this lapse in security) he wanders curiously about, unhindered by any of the servants he passes along his way. He finds himself stopping in front of a door located along a flight of curving stairs. Tension makes his breath hitch and catch, an anxious mixture of excitement and dread pooling in his stomach as he reaches out with small hands to push open the door—

—to find a musty old room filled with cobwebbed shelves and a long-vacant workbench. No one has been here in years.

“Are you lost, dear?” a young woman says from behind him.

Jerking around like a startled animal, he greets the woman’s tentative smile with a surprised gasp. A kind face, unusually dark and framed by untameable charcoal curls, greets him. Heart thudding in his chest, a name pops into his head, sweet and familiar: “Gwen.”

She blinks, cocking her head to the side. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“No,” Myrddin says, backpedalling, and wets his lips anxiously. “I just—must have heard someone calling you that.” Turning on his dimpled charm, he peers up at her through long, childish lashes, and shyly explains, “I’m new here.”

“So, you _are_ lost,” she nods, reaching out to ruffle his hair, though her smile fades a little as she casts her gaze around the empty chambers. “I suppose your master has sent you to see the court physician and given you the wrong directions.”

Myrddin’s smile, too, fades.

“Has—has the physician moved, then?”

Gwen shakes her head sadly. “No, it’s just that our former physician was here so long that people can’t quite seem to remember that he’s passed on.” She speaks from experience. “The new physician keeps his own quarters in the heart of the castle, closer to the excitement.”

“Oh.”

“I can show you the way, if you like.”

“Thank you,” he declines, “but maybe you could just point me in the right direction?”

She agrees easily, sketching a map with enthusiastic gestures and babbling loveliness. He isn’t really listening. Unshed tears pooling in his eyes, he leans back against the door’s solid frame, taking comfort in its strength. He feels like he’s lost something—something important—but he doesn’t know what. Somehow that just makes it worse.

* * *

When he’s sure Gwen’s eyes are no longer on his back, Myrddin veers off into an entirely different direction, lips pursed with determination. The harsh, throbbing ache in his chest has transformed a wish into a need: _Arthur_, his heart whispers, _Arthur_. Something in him reaches out—yearning, seeking, pleading—and he exhales with an astonished whimper when something reaches back, beckoning and rich with promise. The contact is fleeting, painfully so, but it is enough.

Myrddin traverses the winding halls and bustling corridors as if he has walked these paths before. He does not wonder at this. He’s always known things he shouldn’t. That used to frighten him, early on. Then it annoyed him—because it was yet another manifestation of his freakishness, a sign that he doesn’t belong. Now he’s thankful, because it enables him to find his prince—_king_—far more swiftly than would have otherwise been possible.

He’s in the training yards, of course.

Myrddin watches him from a distance, partially concealed in shadows, and he’s nothing like that distant godlike creature he remembers from that long-ago procession: he’s _more_. Gone is the ornate ceremonial armour and in its place is the more practical standard fare of metal plates and chainmail. His sword is drawn, sparkling wickedly as he circles his opponent, steps carefully-measured. When the other knight thrusts forward, he parries with cool grace, expression calm and unaffected. When he strikes a blow, he does not gloat, only waits for his opponent to realize what he’s done wrong. There is no aggression here: this is a training exercise, a lesson taught in patient evasions and in the sound of the flat of a well-worn blade slapping against sloppily exposed weak-spots. When the trainee stumbles, the king does not yell. When he admits defeat, the king returns his bow with a nod of acknowledgment.

There is fire there, beneath the surface of that deceptively placid smile, but it’s been tempered by time and experience. His actions are his own. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone anymore.

King Arthur has grown into his crown.

“Would you like a closer look?” says a man to his left and Myrddin jumps, frightened out of his wits for the second time in less than a candlemark. Embarrassed and angry with himself, he casts his eyes up to meet the crooked grin of a dark-haired knight—who reminds him a little of Gwen, actually. “It’s alright, lad,” the knight continues, misinterpreting Myrddin’s blush, “I’m sure no one will mind if you shirk your duties for a few minutes to watch the king whip us slackers into shape.” He chuckles, warm and deep, and Myrddin recognizes the affection in his tone. Myrddin finds his own lips twitching in response. “Everyone else does, after all.” The knight waves his hand and for the first time Myrddin notices the faces poking out of open windows and the scattered servants and courtiers transparently pretending they have a reason to be in the area. Myrddin is reminded of circling vultures, but he really isn’t in any position to criticize, now is he?

“Huh,” he murmurs.

The knight’s hand falls on his shoulder and suddenly Myrddin finds himself being guided closer to the field—and then the king is hardly more than a few feet away, close enough that Myrddin can make out the dents in his gorget and rerebrace and the discoloration in his mail where rust is threatening to take hold. The king’s manservant, he scowls, is an absolute disgrace. “Come now, you can cheer me on while Arthur wallops me into next Sunday. Again.”

The king turns, brow raised in mock disdain. “Oh, Lancelot! If my knights would stop lazing about like pampered little _princesses_,” he snorts, “perhaps I would not have to ‘wallop’ you so often.”

Hearing this, Myrddin’s mood lightens considerably, all traces of shyness erased by blue eyes and a half-smile. “Or maybe,” Myrddin says, glancing up at the knight—Lancelot—with a sly smirk, “I could cheer you on as you remind His Majesty that even royalty can be knocked off their feet.”

Lancelot looks stunned.

The king, on the other hand, lets out a strangled laugh, eyes crinkling and he studies the small boy at his friend’s side with new eyes. “You have some cheek, speaking of your monarch thusly,” he declares, the welcome weight of one gauntlet falling to rest on Myrddin’s shoulder. Myrddin meets his nonthreatening glare with a fond smile—and something familiar flashes through those blue eyes (something a lot like sadness). “Allow me to prove you wrong.” The king darts an amused glance at Lancelot. “Lancelot will take this beating like a man, same as he always does. You’ll be cheering for me by the end, you’ll see.”

“Thanks a lot, scamp!” Lancelot groans. “Now I’m _really_ in for it!”

“Sorry?” he tries, dodging the playful swipe Lancelot makes at him before he follows the king into the ring. Myrddin settles in to watch, certain that he’s about to see a show far more exhilarating than the first. If he’s not mistaken, Lancelot is far more skilled than he claims.

He’s not disappointed.

The king delivers the first blow, striking like lightening, but Lancelot is quick and strong and knows his lord well. Steel meets steel and they’re both grinning like madmen. It’s predator versus predator, no holds barred, and Myrddin is both intensely amazed and absolutely terrified. One mistake, just one…

Blow for blow, thrust for thrust, they are matched.

Each new move is like a continuation of the previous, smooth and liquid as a river. And, like the river, on the surface the arcs of their swords are small and hypnotic-lovely, but beneath it all is a deadly undertow. The power of these men—it’s amazing and frightening both.

Myrddin can’t look away, can’t even find his voice to cheer—though the king was right: had he a voice, his cry would be for _Arthur_. The fire that had previously quivered beneath a mask of calm has been unleashed and he’s _magnificent_. This is the man who has delivered the kingdom from all manner of evils. This is the man the stories whisper about—wild and untameable.

Worthy.

This close, Myrddin can see the sweat on his brow, gathering at his temples. He can see the quickness of his breath, the way his body tenses with each strike. So, too, can he see how even as Lancelot tires, the king is calling on hidden reserves of strength—

—and then Lancelot is on his back, the king’s sword to his neck and his own sword well out of reach.

“Yield?” the king grins, pressing the tip of his weapon dangerously closer.

“Yes, I yield,” Lancelot grumbles, “you great bully.”

Sheathing his blade, the king helps the fallen knight to his feet and when the king is standing once more within Myrddin’s reach, looking unabashedly smug, all Myrddin can do is stare. He still can’t breathe. “So,” the king says knowingly, “what say you to _that_.”

And, with the terrible innocence of youth, Myrddin says _exactly_ what he’s thinking: “I’m going to marry you someday.”

The knights around them laugh uproariously at this—even Lancelot slaps him on the back with a loud guffaw—but the king seems to accept this declaration as it was meant: not as an object of humour, but of love. The man considers him seriously, expression a little wistful, and asks, “What is your name, boy?”

“Myrddin.”

The king looks startled—and sadder than ever. “_Myr_-ddin,” he repeats, the sound rolling off his tongue like a caress. Myrddin’s belly flutters. He’s never heard anyone say his name like that before—like it _means_ something. “You’re a little young to be thinking of marriage, don’t you think?”

“I’ll grow up,” Myrddin vows. “I’ll grow up quickly for you.”

“Not too quickly,” the king says sternly. “Now, I think you’d best be on your way, don’t you?” His lips quirk, though he looks more pained than amused. “I have a feeling that someone is missing you very much right now.”

Myrddin nods, remembering his aunt, who must be worried sick. The king is right. Much as he is loath to admit it, his time here is up. Pursing his lips, he draws himself up tall, looks directly into those achingly blue eyes and makes sure one truth is understood: “I’ll be back someday.”

The king nods gravely. “I know.”

Had Myrddin looked back to see the king watching him go, a perfect portrait of desolation and yearning, he would have never left.


End file.
